#salty limerick

[doonarose]

GOAD Writer's Guild presents: Give Me Jizz or Give Me Death - A Choose Your Own Jizz (CYOJ) Adventure

HAPPY BIRTHDAY HARLOTOFUPDOG OMG!!!!!!!!

(yes, you should feel equal parts pleased and terrified, we wrote you choose your own jizz/graveyard/dark/ghost/crack/weird fic)

And yes, the rest of you can read it too!

Summary: It is a dark and porny night. Everything feels… spooky. And salty. Really, really salty. Tread lightly in this Choose Your Own Adventure fic, our Ineffables have the odds stacked against them as they step foot onto an island with danger around every corner. All they really want is to have a nice picnic… Well, maybe a bit more than that.

Enter if you dare.

TW: Although this is very much for fun (and yay happy birthday, we love you!), we have hit the big ones: major character deaths, graphic violence (and death), noncon. As well as disgusting jizz, ghosts and cameos by characters you perhaps would rather not see in ways you definitely don’t want to see them. Basically: dead dove, don’t eat. On steroids. But for fun.

A/N: Yes, so happy birthday u/harlotofupdog!!! And welcome to the second iteration of the @goodomensafterdark Choose Your Own Adventure style fic. This wasn’t meant to happen. We only had a week or so to whip up something quick and easy to celebrate our dear, dark, jizzy Harlot, and instead here we are with some of the most ghastly, gooey choices a reader will ever have to make.

The premise is simple, borrowing heavily from Harlot’s own very brilliant Good Omens fics, our story begins with Crowley and Aziraphale on a windswept island, out for an adventure and choosing to explore the lighthouse (of course), the graveyard (obviously), or a pub (the trifecta of Best Ever Fic Settings). Within each, our heroes could find their bliss or their very worst endings. How happily they end up depends entirely on your choices.

At the end of each chapter you will have to choose what happens next. Navigate by clicking the links, NOT by clicking ‘next chapter’.

Amazing thanks to u/wingsofopal and u/nosferatini for thinking this was at all a good idea to try to pull off in a week and for wrangling our exceptional writers, betas and cheerleaders!

Shout out to each and every author: u/adverbian, u/-cheeseplants-, u/blackjeans93, u/startledplatypus, u/FuzzyGoblinoid, u/depressedpenguin2, u/yes-its-unholy, u/Natyu0815, u/gaiaseyes, u/nosferatini, u/happynachohologram, u/wingsofopal, u/paperclip_ninja, u/badbitchbarenziah, u/blackjeans93, u/likeafuckingninja, u/sensiblesquirrels, u/she_makes_things, u/doonarose, u/dbacklot99, u/hakunahistata, u/zin_lynn and u/PurpleMoonPagan for the intro limerick.

I think we all found out some interesting things about ourselves and each other during this journey into the darkest, weirdest, jizziest corners of our brains! Many authors also helped beta each other’s work, as well as special shout-outs to u/pepper_bird, u/ghst_signal and u/tawnyowl95 for extra beta help!

Enormous shoutout to u/IneffableCrankShaft for that amazing cover art!!!! And also to u/likeafuckingninja for some extra special saucy art within the fic!

All of this spunky, gooey, frankly quite weird jizz is for u/harlotofupdog to celebrate their birthday!!! And as a little thank you for their lovely/soul-shattering fic!!

Excerpt:

“Well, this place feels…spooky.” Crowley’s words are whipped away in the wind as it lashes relentlessly through the grass. It howls past them, across the red sandstone cliffs and down to the docks they’ve left behind one trudging step at a time. There’s no turning back, not with rain threatening to pour forth from the evening skies at any moment. Not now that they’ve made it this far up the narrow path to the highest peak of the island, panting and heaving a picnic basket back and forth between them. How many books did the bastard pack, exactly? “WHAT?” Aziraphale calls out, and Crowley turns to face him, locks of his own hair flickering like flame across his vision. “I said, this whole place feels spooky .” “That’s why we’re here, my dear.” Aziraphale has properly caught up to him now, his cheeks pink and his pale curls hopelessly tousled. Crowley’s heart twists at the sight, beating faster. “WOT?” Crowley shouts back, attempting a grin. Aziraphale hands him back the picnic basket with a hearty shove and the makings of a smirk about his lips. “I thought you liked spooky! Big, spooky, um, fan, wasn’t it?”

Read the fic here! And don’t forget your amazing bingo card to play along as you go!

[mydaddywiki]

Malachy McCourt

Physique: Stout Build Height: 5'8" (1.73 m)

Malachy Gerard McCourt (September 20, 1931 – March 11, 2024; aged 92) was an American-Irish actor, writer and politician. McCourt appeared in several films and soap operas, including The Molly Maguires, Brewster's Millions, and Another World. He also wrote three memoirs, describing his life in Ireland and in the United States. McCourt was the 2006 Green Party candidate for governor of New York. He was the younger brother of author Frank McCourt.

In his youth, he was tall, husky with strapping good looks, overflowing charm and entertaining gift of gab. I’ve long admired McCourt as a teller of tall tales, salty jokes and personal anecdotes of growing up poor in Limerick, Ireland and later moving to New York. When I'm reading about the many women he had sex with, I always got an erection with his colorful descriptions.

Born in Brooklyn and raised in Limerick, Ireland, McCourt returned to the United States in 1952 and worked as a longshoreman, dishwasher, and laborer. Soon after, he became an actor, then established the first singles bar in America. He then began a tumultuous radio career in 1970 on WNYC, WMCA and WBAI. McCourt acted on stage, on television and in several movies, including The Brink's Job, Q, Tales from the Darkside, The January Man, Beyond the Pale, and Ash Wednesday. He appeared on several New York City-based soap operas: Another World, Ryan's Hope, Search for Tomorrow, and One Life to Live.

According to his first memoir, McCourt was a bit of a whore. And I love that. In the 2000s, when I discovered him. Malachy at this time was in his late sixties, still healthy but tending toward portly. He was big-shouldered and broad-bellied, though age had diminished his physical dominance. but I’d still like to image attending a lecture of his so I can go and sit near him. Possibly, deliberately, accidentally, trip and fall over so that my face lands in his crotch. I find it best to be subtle like that.

He died at Lenox Hill Hospital on March 11, 2024, at the age of 92. In addition to wife Diana, McCourt is survived by a daughter from his first marriage, Siobhán McCourt; a son from that marriage, Malachy Jr.; two sons from his second marriage, Conor and Cormac; a stepdaughter, Nina Galin; nine grandchildren; and one great-grandson. Malachy and Diana McCourt had lived in the same apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan for 59 years.

Known For: The Other Guys (2010) After.Life (2009) Righteous Kill (2008) - Showed his ass crack. Oz (TV Series) - Dead Man Talking (2003) - Shirtless, body being washed. The Devil's Own (1997) Q: The Winged Serpent (1982)

Books Death Need Not Be Fatal with Brian McDonald (2017) Bush Lies in State (2004) History of Ireland (2004) The Claddagh Ring: Ireland's Cherished Symbol Of Friendship, Loyalty And Love (2003) Danny Boy: The Legend of the Beloved Irish Ballad (2003) Voices of Ireland: Classic Writings of a Rich and Rare Land (2002) Singing My Him Song (2000) A Monk Swimming: A Memoir (1998) Through Irish Eyes: A Visual Companion to Angela McCourt's Ireland (1998)

[goodomensafterdark]

Writers Guild Cock Fight - Someone is Calling Him Shorewards - Chapter Three

It's another dark and stormy night. Who would've seen that coming? Chapter three of Someone is Calling Him Shorewards AKA Storm Jizz is arrive, and there is angst.

Written by Harlotofupdog- find them on Reddit and AO3!

CW/TW: Please do read the tags for the whole fic. There is explicit content and smut (not in this chapter though), and a dub con tag due to overarching theme of memory loss/something mysterious and spooky goings on.

Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale return to the cottage. The night is both dark AND stormy. There is a limerick.

Thanks: Massive thanks to glorious wonderful ethereal being @paperclipninja for beta-ing this at the last minute and generally being lovely. Also loads of thanks to GOAD writers for wonderful cheerleading and support.

Apologies: I'm sorry. I'm perpetually sorry. But it'll be okay.

Excerpt:

“And you’re sure I’m not being kidnapped?”

Aziraphale nearly howls with bewildered frustration, but he grits his teeth and takes a deep breath. Half-written hopes gallop through his head, and he needs, more than anything, a moment to think. It makes a kind of sense, that madness would feel like this—that his thoughts can’t follow the thread of logic to its wretched conclusion, but instead rush in frenzied circles around an impossible idea until it blurs into an illusion of reality.

"For the third time, no, you’re not being kidnapped. You helped me get here,” he reminds Crowley—for the man is Crowley, even if he is an apparition concocted from broken-hearted insanity.

He only partly recalls the walk back to the cottage. The chill in his fingers and the shivers that wracked his body had belied his first threads of reasoning; that he was dreaming or dead. He had leaned heavily on Crowley’s narrow shoulder, his legs jellied and recalcitrant, until they reached the door. The body pressed against his, as they stumbled together through the mud, was solid and real. Each time Aziraphale glanced sideways at the man’s face, hoping that the rain and the darkness disguised the salty tears on his own cheeks, he expected to see… he doesn’t know what. But the copper hair turned dark and lank by the rain, plastered against the man’s neck, conjured images of a face pressed close to his under the shower spray.

Continue reading on AO3

[paniniseller]

Certainly! Let's set sail on the **Ballochbuie**, Tim and Anne's ship of adventure! 🌊⚓

---

**Tim and Anne's Seafaring Tale**

Tim and Anne sailed the azure sea,

Their ship, the "Ballochbuie," wild and free.

With wind-kissed hair and hearts aglow,

They danced on deck, where the salt winds blow.

Tim patched sails, Anne steered the helm,

Their laughter echoing like a seashell's realm.

They chased sunsets, shared tales of yore,

Two souls entwined, forevermore.

Lou the parrot squawked, "Ahoy, mates!"

As Tim and Anne plotted their fates.

Through storms and calms, they sailed as one,

Their love, a compass, guiding them toward the sun.

So here's to Tim and Anne, a salty pair,

Their limerick sung by waves in salty air.

May their adventures continue, bold and grand,

As they chart love's course across the sand. 🌟🌴

---

It's the bots wot did it guv

[maturemenoftvandfilms]

Malachy McCourt Born: September 20, 1931, Brooklyn, NY Physique: Chubby Build Height: 5'8" (1.73 m)

Malachy Gerard McCourt is an Irish-American actor, writer, one-time pub owner, and politician. McCourt is best known for his work in The Devil’s Own, Q The Winged Serpent, After.Life and Righteous Kill. Childhood friend Richard Harris helped secure Malachy's first film role in The Molly Maguires (1970). He is the author of the books A Monk Swimming and Singing My Him Song.

I've long admired McCourt as a teller of tall tales, salty jokes and personal anecdotes of growing up poor in Limerick, Ireland and later moving to New York. Married with four children and grandchildren, according to his his first memoir, A Monk Swimming, McCourt was a bit of a whore. And I love that. Sure he has aged out by now, but I'd still like to image attending a lecture of his so I can go and sit near him. Possibly, deliberately, accidentally, trip and fall over so that my face lands in his crotch. I find it best to be subtle like that.

RECOMMENDATIONS: Righteous Kill (2008) - Showed his ass crack. Oz - Dead Man Talking (2003) - Shirtless, body being washed.

[teddyqd]

i will always remain salty that people brush off poetry so easily and say they don't "get" it like hello do you not "get" books??? you don't "get" an entire fucking medium??? try!!! find something within poetry that is not what you believe poetry to be!!! free verse is not limerick is not haiku is not sonnet!!! i'm sorry the education system failed you by making you think all poetry is written by crusty old boring white people but i promise you there's more out there!!!! there's interactive poetry there's visual poetry there's digital poetry there's SWATHES of infinite ways that people write poetry about an experience that i promise you you have had

[burlveneer-music]

My WVUD playlist and stream, 5/6/2023

Scissor Sisters - Take Your Mama The Beta Band - Dry the Rain Steve Mason - Let It Go Waan - Chivat Triberg - Himmelreich KADEF - Rahma Alabaster Deplume - Salty Road Dogs Victory Anthem O.V.E (The Overview Effect) - Baltimore dragonchild - LTD Langendorf United - Selam New Dur-Dur Band Int. - Love My Love Meshell Ndegeocello - Vuma (feat. Joel Ross & Thandiswa) Tommaso Cappellato & Pavimento Fertile - Made of Golden Light (feat. Lalin St. Juste) Adrian Younge & Ali Shaheed Muhammad - Love Brings Happiness (feat. Lonnie Liston Smith & Loren Oden) P T B (The Powers That Be) - Anunnaki Pt. 1 Brooklyn Funk Essentials & Alison Limerick - How Happy Witch Prophet - Energy Vampire (feat. DillanPonders) Brandee Younger - Dust (feat. Meshell Ndegeocello) Jî Drû - The Sound of Wisdom Sly5thAve & Roberto Verastegui - La Tormenta Bobby Previte and Michael Kammers - The Greatest Jewel Heist of All Time Whatitdo Archive Group - Delirium Calibro 35 - Extraordinaire Radwimps - Cat Chase

(listen on Mixcloud)

[whatsonmedia]

Music Monday: New Music Releases for November 2nd Week!

Embark on a musical odyssey with Adam Humphries' curated indie playlist, a diverse tapestry of indie gems that will tantalize your auditory senses. RHEA explore complex, ambivalent love with alt-rock single - "Creeping Through My Head"! An incredible song from start to finish and after this one song I am officially a fan of this band from Belgium. Even though the title has a suggestive sound to it the song itself absolutely reeks of rock and roll. It doesn't exactly go all punk mode but the attitude is there. Creeping is about a relationship but choosing to remain no matter how hectic  https://open.spotify.com/track/7GUuRxDcmihZblp7j9Nijy?si=df2030f837884f8f SODA BLONDE's sonically rich new single - ‘Boys' + London tour date! I have listened to quite a number of artists from Ireland, and some of them I am still listening to today. For me, Soda Blonde is amongst that. Boys by Soda is such an incredible tune not only does it have something of a hype in itself, and not to mention downright catchy, it clearly shows that there's definitely a hype about the band themselves. Watch this space  https://open.spotify.com/track/3frTwlLBB97qYztkEVZInD?si=fde11e9abfdd49fc https://youtu.be/3iAnUmsJtNw?si=us04VEDsjgsmaQXk DREAM BIG TOUR 2023/2024 Nov 22 - The Lexington - London Nov 24 - Roisin Dubh - Galway Nov 25 - Dolans - Limerick Nov 26 - Connollys Of Leap - Cork Nov 30 - Cyprus Avenue - Cork Dec 7 - The Black Box - Belfast Dec 8 - Spirit Store - Dundalk Dec 14 - Vicar St - Dublin Jan 17 - PopUp! - Paris Jan 18 - Le Botanique - Brussels Jan19 - Paradiso - Amsterdam Jan 20 - Nochtwache - Hamburg Jan 21 - Prachtwerk - Berlin TICKETS AVAILABLE AT -  https://www.sodablonde.com/#tour https://www.sodablonde.com/ https://www.facebook.com/sodablonde https://twitter.com/sodablonde https://www.instagram.com/sodablonde/ DEADSET unveil video for their heavy-hitting noise-rock single - "Bleak"! I openly admit that I was somewhat skeptical of the video but after a few seconds I actually found myself enjoying it. It's very British in the core. It has that sort of humor where it doesn't take itself seriously and where the song has nothing to do with the video. Quite a good video, actually like it, particularly when you see the band members dress up and muck about  https://youtu.be/0NgAY9NVxCA?si=fPYioDQqJnrgdbbW FERAL FAMILY - Share Searing New Single: "Deep Cuts" + Debut 'Without Motion' coming 19 Jan Now I haven't heard anything from the Yorkshire-based FERAL FAMILY so I am happy to listen to Deep Cuts. The track is one of those where even though there is no actual specific meaning behind it it does delve into more darker tones and themes of struggles and loss. I think that the genius behind this is that it's the fact that it's a somber track is what makes it great  STREAM ON ALL SERVICES  HERE  https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/feralfamily/deep-cuts YOUTUBE  HERE https://youtu.be/Zm1cN1FmABM?si=kMFLaYPia1zk61eu FERAL FAMILY LIVE DATES 2023/4 NOVEMBER 11 BRIDLINGTON Bridlington Spa - TICKETS* https://www.bridspa.com/buy-tickets/?id=809802#buy-tickets 24 LEEDS Warehouse -  TICKETS** https://www.theleedswarehouse.com/event/the-view/ DECEMBER 01 SHEFFIELD Foundry -  TICKETS** https://foundry.seetickets.com/event/the-view/foundry/2644098 FEBRUARY 01 BIRMINGHAM The Victoria 02 DARWEN Sunbird 08 GLASGOW Nice n Sleazy 10 HULL BUDfest 16 BRISTOL Crofters Rights 17 NORTHWICH Salty Dog 18 LONDON Dream Bags Jaguar Shoes *Supporting The Lilacs **supporting The View John Francis Flynn shares new single - 'Kitty' - album ' Look Over The Wall See The Sky' out Nov 10th on River Lea For a song that it a bit longer than normal I found it to be somewhat of an interesting listen. Vocally, John Francis singing is reminiscent of legendary rockers Mark Knoplee and Shane McGowan in that it's got this gritty, almost throaty sound which actually gives it more depth. It's hard to find anything bad to say about it and I enjoy the rawness of the song  'Kitty' https://youtu.be/atheAeUuddU Single Smart URL: https://johnfrancisflynn.ffm.to/kitty Album Pre-Order Link: https://johnfrancisflynn.ffm.to/lotwsts Forthcoming In-Stores: Fri, Nov 10th – The RAGE, Dublin – 7pm – tickets here https://www.therage.ie/products/john-francis-flynn-look-over-the-wall-see-the-sky-lp-pre-order?_pos=1&_sid=51e0bd4ff&_ss=r Sun, Nov 12th – Jacaranda, Liverpool - 7pm – tickets here https://jacarandarecordstore.com/pages/john-francis-flynn Mon, Nov 13th – Vinyl Whistle, Leeds – 7pm – tickets here https://vinylwhistle.co.uk/products/john-francis-flynn-look-over-the-wall-see-the-sky Tues, Nov 14th – Rough Trade West, London – 5pm – tickets here https://dice.fm/event/vnaxv-john-francis-flynn-unplugged-signing-14th-nov-rough-trade-west-london-tickets?lng=en Forthcoming Tour Dates : Fri, Dec 1st – Set Theatre, Kilkenny Sat, Dec 2nd – Vicar St, Dublin Fri, Dec 8th – Roisin Dubh, Galway Sat, Dec 9th – St Luke's, Cork Sun, Dec 10th – De Barras, Clonakilty Thurs, Dec 14th – Dolan's Warehouse, Limerick Fri, Jan 12th – Out To Lunch Festival, Ulster Sports Club, Belfast Fri, Jan 19th – Brudenell, Leeds Sat, Jan 20th – Celtic Connections, Drygate, Glasgow Sun, Jan 21st – The Caves, Edinburgh Tues, Jan 23rd – The Exchange, North Shields Wed, Jan 24th – YES. Manchester Thurs, Jan 25th – Hare and Hounds, Birmingham Fri, Jan 26th – Clwb Ifor Bach, Cardiff Sat, Jan 27th – The Exchange, Bristol Tues, Jan 30th – Concorde 2, Brighton Wed, Jan 31st – The Dome, London Thu, Feb 1st – Point FMR, Paris Mon, Feb 5th – Paradiso Upstairs, Amsterdam Sat, Feb 10th – Silent Green, Berlin Thu, Feb 22nd – Theatre Royal, Waterford Read the full article

[larrylimericks]

10Apr22

In Milano, Lou’s LT tour fit Was a retro England football kit; They weren’t Euros champions, Lost to the Italians— Oddio, he’s a petty li’l shit!

[johnschneiderblog]

'A wonderful bird'

For as long as I live, I'll never be able to look at a pelican without thinking of the limerick my mother taught me, salty language and all, when I was 5, or so (and if you knew my mother, this would not surprise you.)

It's often attributed to Ogden Nash, but was actually written by Dixon Lanier Merritt (1879-1972), an American humorist and editor at the Nashville Tennessean. It goes like this:

“A wonderful bird is the Pelican.

His beak can hold more than his belly can.

He can hold in his beak

Enough food for a week!

But I'll be damned if I know how the hellican?”

[insomniac-dot-ink]

The Failure of Poetry

Here is the first failure of poetry: you give something form and it loses meaning. Words are cages for the ache of living.

“Sadness” isn’t the choking lump in your throat, it is not the salty tears and the breaths that just can’t come fast enough. It isn’t rocking yourself back and forth on the floor, hugging your legs to your chest like you can tuck your heart back into it’s childhood bed.

“Fury” isn’t the rancid fire burning in your belly. It isn’t the useless way you pound your hands into the pillow and not the wrenched-out scream of something filled to brimming. It has no ears, it has no mouth, it hides behind the letters that give it name and summon it into existence. The end of every word leaves us still wretched at the bottom of ourselves.

“Happiness” is no more bright against my tongue than any other. It is not the moment when you brush the hair out of your friends face and lie in bed with the softest promises. Happiness is the word they use on television to sell me yogurt, cars, and sex. It doesn’t know the bed, it doesn’t know the girl, it doesn’t know the fact that this moment dies and has no monuments and yet. There’s no language for that either.

Here is the second failure of poetry: it fills the hollows of our loneliness, promising that we are all knowable. That we hear the same notes, see the same colors, and when we hurt, that hurt can be understood, prodded, held up, examined, recognized in a stadium full of people and applauded.

I break myself against every page, offering up sacrifices: my blood, my heart, my tragedy, my weakness. Can you know me? Can you see me? By God, I don’t want to be alone in here.

Do we wish for ghosts because we want life after life, or do we wish for souls because that means there is a witness inside our own skull. There is someone watching without judgement, and caring without leaving. And poetry promises our spirits can touch each other, still 

Poetry will fail you. When people cry, they cry for themselves, they cry for their own pain which you can never feel the same way they do. We are separated by oceans of self, and no way to bridge it but with feeble offerings of sound.

Here is the third failure of poetry: I will never be any better at it than the moment I picked up a crayon and rhymed the words “bed” and “head”. I will never be any better at it than when I was seven and made limericks out of glitter glue and sand.

Poetry is forcing us to capture living with tools made of tissue paper and wind. Poetry is forcing the falsehood of self beyond self, the idea we can be less alone if we offer up our skinned out naked flesh. Poetry is picking up crayons, poetry is misspelling words as you form raindrops out of cursive, poetry is laughing at the way words find each other like friends, dog and hog, cat and hat, bed and head.

Poetry can only fail us. But by God, don’t tell me I can win. Don’t tell me there is a right way to hurt, to scream, to speak, to try, to reach out into the ether. Let me fail, let there be no victory bell, let my words be only sounds, and let failure be enough.

[drwcn]

Idk why, but reading your aus made me imagine one where the Wens ( idk, it was JFM in LP and they surrendered) won and WRH gifts WQ all the pretty boys for her harem ( she deserves one more than WC), but her and wwx spend all day talking about alternative medicine and resentful application, and LWJ is constantly angry but can't say a thing because it's her choice who she beds

LMAO lwj would be so salty that wen qing is visiting with wwx all the time. He doesn’t know it’s just all nighters with Tea and Science. 

WQ: ...like I’m just saying this type of mold produces a substance that cures infections okay? If I could extract and purify it - 

WWX: - if I draw the symbol this way instead of that way, I can bring back the dead but they’ll only speak in limericks. 

WQ: ....I don’t like poetry. 

WWX: Ah but you do like Jiang Cheng; too bad you can’t have him as per the accord Wen Ruohan signed with the major clans. They get to keep their heirs. 

WQ *smacks him* 

WWX: Hey!! This is abuse! I’m reporting you to your uncle. 

[littlebookreader]

iustus alius dies ad domum

This has two parts: Information and the fic itself. For slightly easier accessibility, I will put both in this post itself.

Some information first:

Summary: Julius Bell knows a lot of things, and what he doesn’t know, he learns. Right? (For the Wednesday prompt ‘Favourite Bell Sibling’ of the Victoriocity Appreciation Week 2021. Takes place after ‘SMS Brandenburg’, shortly before Lunae lumen ipsum.)

Fandoms: Victoriocity(Podcast)

Rating: General Audiences

Relationships: Gen

Word count: 666 words(okay....)

Characters: Julius Bell, Septimus Bell, Augusta Bell, Aurelia Bell, Commodus Bell, Tiberius Bell, past implied Julius Bell/Dr. Emeline Tilvane, Dr. Emeline Tilvane(mentioned), John Balmoral(mentioned), Michael Monkfish | The Narrator(mentioned). 

Additional Tags: Family feud: the Victorian drama, just kidding, I have no idea what the game is, so that reference is nonsensical at best, Septimus being a sweeties for n minutes straight(?), Julius being way too salty for a man of his size, Aurelia being my crush(is that cause of Beth Eyre, I think it’s also cause of Beth Eyre), The Bells being.....the Bells, I’m waaaaay too late with this, so have two fics!, ayyy, can’t really think of much else, author regrets everything, no beta we quarrel like the Bells, here you go

@victoriocity-appreciation for the Favourite Bell Sibling.

Part 5 of Love, Actually.

This was the information. For the rest of the fic, it’s all under the cut.

Fic: 

In his position, Julius Bell had to know a lot of things. What he didn’t know, he had to learn, and what he knew, he had to hide. He’d come to understand, from brilliant inventor and trusted friend(he wasn’t ashamed to admit he’d hoped for more, but those times were long past) Dr. Emeline Tilvane, that they’d only resolved a small piece of the puzzle, that there was a lot more to the spy racket than they’d unearthed so far. Presently, however, this was not the only thing bothering him.

“You must understand, Julius, I cannot do this!”

He frowned. “Whyever not? It’s only a few men.”

“Yes,” Commodus gruffed, “And I need them all.” With that, Commodus, his brother, whom for the most part he tolerated, began to walk out, dashing all of Julius’ hopes with each retreating footstep.

“I will have them back by tomorrow, I promise.”

“It’s already the eleventh hour.”

It was at this point that Septimus decided to grace them with his presence. “Will you stop fighting? It is late, and some of us have early owuhs!”

“He’s right, Julius, can’t this wait till the morning?” Aurelia, who was a socialite, a planner of the highest order, the Bells almost never got to see, despite her schedule keeping being impeccable, had chosen NOW to visit?

“No, it most certainly cannot! This is a matter of national security!”

“It’s always a matter of national security with you, isn’t it? Never a good scoop, just an inane chatter surrounding it,” Augusta grumbled.

“Well-” He faltered. They would never really understand, would they? It wasn’t much use defending himself to them anyway, because they’d just offer up stranger and stranger critique by the passing word. “I have a source.”

This caught Augusta’s interest, while the others rolled their eyes. “Who is it?”

“I’m afraid I cannot tell you that.”

“Why?” Tiberius, who was sitting in the corner, probably writing some terrible poetry, limerick or haiku again, asked.

“Well, that could be because I do not actually know who it is, just that they’ve been sending notes all around the city to my contacts, and gauging their responses.”

Septimus sighed, then frowned. “There was a man at St. Bernadine’s who’d been shot in the leg, but left wight the day after, would ‘your contact’ have had anything to do with that?”

Julius pulled him aside and asked, “Would this man happen to be registered, in records as John Balmoral, by any chance?”

“He most coitanly was!”

“Oh, then yes, I suppose so, why?”

Septimus was not someone he’d generally disagreed too much with, though they’d still had their fair share of arguments leading with one either throwing something at the other, or chasing him around with a scalpel. Right then, Septimus almost looked comical, eyes bulging out of his head, eyebrows waggling about every which way.

“He was placed under obsoivation! And, he was shot in the leg! Couldn’t your contact have waited a few moi days?”

He simply shrugged. “I had nothing to do with that. Balmoral made his choice. I simply pushed him in the right direction.”

“Which was what, exactly?”

If he was being honest, even he had no idea. Apart from a small test, just to understand their reactions a bit better (Fleet and Ms. Entwhistle being the more inaccurate of the two in their assumption, as that interaction had become somewhat common knowledge due to Michael Monkfish’s incessant narration), he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d sent the notes out in the first place.

A new worry began to grow in its stead.

 What if his contact went rogue, sending more notes all around Even Greater London? What then? He hated the conclusion he’d come up with, but he knew he would be better of admitting it while he still could. Before it was too late.

He shook his head, and sighed, looking at his brother, whose anger began to melt into genuine worry. “I don’t know, Septimus. I don’t know.”

[anonymousdandelion]

Neither Violets Nor Roses: a poem by Antonio Penn

A fluffy little addition to The Collected Works of Antonio Penn, a collaborative sandbox ‘verse in which Crowley writes poetry under a pen name.

Some roses are red Some are yellow or pink Violets are not blue They’re purple, I think

You’re salty, not sugar (Though softer than swords) You sing out of key And forget half the words

An angel you are, But a drinker of wine A bastard of bastards Is that so divine?

We neither quite follow The molds of our creed We’re flowers and thorns Sweet-and-salt guaranteed

Neither roses nor violets Not raven nor dove And yet you are yourself And it’s you that I love

Find it on AO3

~

Now, when I first shared this poem on Discord, someone pointed out an interpretation of the sweet-and-salty lines that... hadn't quite occurred to me. As a result, have a bonus limerick:

There once was an angel forlorn Who was neither a rose nor a thorn Wasn't sure who he was That was simply because The angel was just kettle corn!

...I'd say sorry, but I'm not really sorry. XD

(More of my Penn-verse prose and poetry here!)

[jawbonejoe]

O’Brian: Seventy-five different ship terms used in one sentence, each phrase composed of the same three or four root words so that the whole thing feels like a long, salty, wet limerick but instead it actually means something about the boat.

Me: Sure, Chief, that’s whatever you’re talking about for you.

[complimentsbyzack]

There once was a girl named Salty, who has no discernible faulties. I saw her on the street and asked her to meet and did so with no difficalties.

Zack, writing me a limerick.